


Ruffled

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, wing play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 05:16:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21094013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Aziraphale particularly enjoys his wings being touched. Crowley particularly enjoys touching them. Thus, a good time was had by all.





	Ruffled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lisalicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisalicious/gifts).

“Wings, angel.”

Aziraphale blinks up at him, owlishly, from his book. He’d been lost between the pages, and had he let his wings appear? Were they trailing on the floor? Tripping up swaggering demons? He glances over his shoulder to see, but they are tucked tidily away. Back to the demon, whose eyes roll behind the sunglasses he hasn’t yet removed.

“No, I mean… out with them.”

“Oh!” He wrinkles his nose. “But I’m--”

“Busy? Well, suit yours--”

“No! I… I meant, I should move?” He slides the bookmark in, snug against the spine, and closes the book hurriedly. He doesn’t want to give the impression that he’s ungrateful, because he _loves_ when Crowley pays attention to his wings. But he’d rather dedicate himself properly to it, than do half measures. Or be caught in an uncomfortable position for it.

Angelic eyes mean he can see Crowley’s own react behind the dark lenses, though he’s trying to appear disaffected. He’s clearly appeased by the course correction, and he shrugs like he’s controlling his own body from some external, puppeteering perspective. “If you want.”

Aziraphale neatly places the book down, and flusters to himself. He normally has to hint or suggest for Crowley to preen his wings, unless they’re already in close proximity. If they are, and his wings happen to appear… the demon is drawn to them like a moth to a flame. But he still struggles to initiate some things, bumping roughly against him while Aziraphale struggles to ask, and instead heavy-handedly implies.

You’d think they’d be getting better at it, he muses. But perhaps it takes longer for a lifetime of hidden signals and denied longing to turn into healthy communication. They both still act like someone will pop up, Shakespearian-like, from behind a curtain and smite them both for fraternising. That saying what they want, or mean, could lead to rejection or… worse. 

But he’s trying. They both are. 

Aziraphale moves to the couch, checking sidelong to make sure there’s no look of disapproval or tut to indicate he’s misread the situation somehow. He slips off his jacket, down to waistcoat and shirt, and looks back again. He’s feeling… oddly vulnerable, even though they’ve done much more intimate things. Normally they’d both be undressing, and being in a state of dishabille alone is… thrilling, but also disconcerting. 

He decides to remove the bowtie and waistcoat, but leave the shirt in place. A little fluster over cushions, puffing them up and gathering them together, and he--

“You’re going to be cramped like that.”

“Oh…”

A snap, and there’s suddenly a chaise, with no back. Just one long, almost Roman couch. Elevated, and open on both sides. 

It’s also very wide. Wide enough for two. Aziraphale sucks his lower lip in, testing every slight chap and crease with his tongue. It’s a decadent and… comfortable addition. And very much one that’s designed to share. He moves to lie down one side, and then blinks at the clucking demon.

A come-hither bent finger makes him wiggle on his belly, pulling himself to the closer edge of the chaise. It’s undignified and silly, and he feels exposed like this, but also excited. This is clearly something Crowley has been thinking about, and he stops when the bent finger turns to a ‘stop’ of a palm. Dead centre.

“Wings,” he requests (demands?) again.

Aziraphale bends his arms up to make a triangular support for his face, then shudders as he pulls his wings into the corporeal world. The still air is cool against them, or maybe it’s that the flush on his cheeks makes him feel the difference. He shuffles and re-arranges them, then looks up hopefully. “This is very kind of-- oh!”

Crowley’s legs move as though he’s constantly walked off a boat, upon which he consumed the entire quantity of rum. He lifts, twists, and then he’s straddling somewhere between calf, knee, thigh. Aziraphale is pinned by his slender weight, and aware that he’s reacting rather openly to being in this submissive position. It’s something he’d never let any other creature do to him, not ever. Not willingly, anyway, and he swallows at the constriction in his throat. Feels how each breath pushes his ribcage into the couch, and the rest of him up. Feels the scritchy softness of the fabric under his palms, and the molten heat wherever they touch. 

He wants to never, ever stop. Not ever, please. Not when just this small amount of contact can make him feel better than he ever recalls feeling. He arches his wings out wider, trying to show how happy he is, how good it feels to be beneath him. He hasn’t even touched those wings yet, and it’s already…

“Considering the care you put into your clothes, it never fails to astound me…”

“Well, normally it was only me who… I mean, sometimes you might, but--”

A cluck tells him to stop, and then surprisingly warm hands are at his shoulderblades, pinching and squeezing at the place his flesh gives way to his more angelic self. They push palms against the sprout of his wings, and it kneads at the joints. Aziraphale won’t deny they feel stiffer, less… easy. He doesn’t get his wings out nearly enough, to be honest, but the risk of Humans wandering in and miracles needing performing, or lies needing spinning… it had just become much more simple to remain Human-appearing than take chances.

But right now, with the clicks that are working out of his shoulders, and the way his spine wants to curve, but can’t, because of the demon pinning him down… he digs his nails into upholstery and tries to turn the moan into a hum. No one is convinced, least of all himself.

“...oh… right there…”

“I do know what I’m--”

“OH!”

Something like a summer storm, right down his spine, into his upper thighs, into his groin. Aziraphale bends like a taut-strung bow, rocking his crotch into the couch. It’s… it’s… blissful how intelligent those hands are. How the demon knows when to pinch, when to squeeze, when to simply rub circles with his thumbs. It’s so shockingly intimate to do nothing but allow himself to be pampered, and he barely can process the smirking lips that kiss below the edge of his hair, breathing at his nape. 

“I told you, I know what I’m doing.”

“Wicked creature, who taught you that?”

“No one. I just. I know, okay?”

It’s probably what you got for eating of the forbidden fruit, because there’s no way on Her Earth that Aziraphale could replicate that. It’s just… it seems to push past the edges of his body and into something much more fundamental. And. Bright. And. Humming. And…

Crowley chuckles, and the playing continues, continues until Aziraphale can only drum one leg beneath him, and whimper in choked, anguished need. It makes his body react like wildfire, his mouth dry and his thighs tensing and his cock ramrod hard against the plush cushion below. He ruts at it, whining when it doesn’t give him near enough resistance. Even with all of his weight bearing down. 

“Demon!”

“Angel,” Crowley replies, and the pressure eases. Turns into the fingers of a harpist, or Penelope at her loom. Threading through feathers, combing through barbs. This touch is softer, more diffuse. Like a balmy spring day, instead of piercing, scorching summer sun. 

“Crowley, _please_.”

“Use your words.” He’s having too much fun, and he rocks his weight from hip to him, rolling them both, and giving him a feel for the answering erection trapped between them.

“Don’t bloody tease me!”

“I’m _preening_ you, you daft birdbrain.”

He doesn’t even pull him on the tautology, instead dropping his head with a tiny sound of dismay. The tug is now like a thread of his coat, trapped in his desk when he stands. Remote, and annoying. The angel uses his strength to arch upwards, to rub himself wantonly at the being straddling him from behind. 

“Don’t be so obtuse.”

“Do you regularly threaten your bedmates?”

“I don’t know. Do you regularly feel threatened?” He hasn’t had any other, a fact Crowley is aware of. And certainly no one who would _ever_ get him in this kind of situation. Ever. Ever. Ever.

But it is nice to feel the sudden heat of body pressed along his spine, ruffling his feathers once more. The undertone to the voice that hisses by his ear. The faint trace of a tongue against the shell of his ear.

“Not what I was asking.”

Possessive, jealous, hungry Crowley makes Aziraphale… glow. Makes him feel… wanted. Needed. **Special**. He spreads his wings wide in an open display of his heart, and turns his face to gaze up at him. 

“You know it’s only you. Only ever been you.”

“Tell me again.” 

The edge of insecurity… borders the line between hot make-believe, and old, unspoken pain. The way they’d been skirting around one another, unsure and wanting… of course his demon likes to know for certain that this is it, for him as well. Of course he needs to know it’s him he’s chosen, will always choose, could only choose… just as much as Aziraphale needs to know the same.

“It’s you, Crowley. You I trust. You I love. I would let no other being touch me how you do. I would die in a shroud of loneliness before I---oh! Oh! Before I let anyone else hold me!” As he speaks, the hands on him get bolder. Tugging, almost plucking. Forcefully arranging him, spreading, stretching, twisting…

It goes all the way to his core, and he’s panting and struggling to think through the waves of bliss. He’s a melted puddle of an angel, and he’s not allowed to just congeal because Crowley won’t _stop_. He’s plying, wringing, scrunching… moving things in ways they shouldn’t, and biting fang-like teeth scratch and scrape at his neck. Crowley’s almost beastly in his rush of hunger, and Aziraphale is bucking and sobbing as the sensation rockets higher still. 

“You!” he calls out, his body rutting at the couch. “You, Crowley! Oh! Oh please don’t stop! I love you! I love you! I’m yours and only yours, I-- Crowley! Cr----aaaahhhh!”

The squawk he utters is entirely unbecoming and undignified, and ends in a squeaking breath as his body releases the pent-up tension the only way it knows how. He can feel the spreading, wet heat over the front of his trousers, and he’s panting and jittering under hands that refuse to let him rest in peace.

Aziraphale isn’t sure how long he coasts on that feeling, as hands work him still. He’s utterly at peace, utterly content, and he just wants to smile at everyone and anyone, and tell them he’s in love. Not just because Crowley can wring a climax from his Human body by playing with his angelic wings, but that certainly is a very enjoyable thing. It’s more that his demon _wants_ him, as much as he wants him back. Wants him enough to ask him to participate - or maybe ‘allow this to happen’ - in such a selfless, enjoyable activity. His demon who is now slaalomed against his spine, breathing in his curls, dancing fingertips in his wings. He’s done this for him. As a gift, or as an act of love… or both… it doesn’t matter. It feels amazing, and good, and relaxing, and satisfying… and it’s all for him. 

He’s all for him. And vice versa. He’d do almost anything for him. Up to, and including defying the most supreme powers in the universe. And right now, all Aziraphale wants to do is float on the cloud of satisfaction and affection, and glow in the love he can feel surrounding him. 

“It was only ever you, too.” The words are low, husked against his shoulder. Almost not there, with how distant and painful they sound. 

“Thank you, my dear. That… that was…” Words fail him. Any number of poets or authors he could quote. Any number of soft collections of syllables he sighed over for thousands of years, wishing he could truly understand. But in this moment, they all fall silent. Fail him. Only the demon’s name and the sound of his beating heart summoning the angel’s own on faster can be heard in these walls. 

He feels… at peace. And. Loved.

“Would… would you… I would very much like if you…”

He feels the laugh against his neck, and the kiss that seals it in place. No ridicule, only fondness. “Yes, angel?”

“Would… you… make love to me?” 

It’s not like they don’t engage in that. And it’s not like they normally ask, not since the first few, stumbling times. But right now, he craves it. Not for the friction-generated release, but because he wants to feel closer. Wants to feel he can wrap his demon up in his own body. Feel as close and united as it’s possible to be. There’s a firm reminder that Crowley hasn’t seen to his own needs, and he punts against it. 

Plus. Crowley managed to ask. And Aziraphale thinks his demon needs to be asked. Needs to know he’s wanted. Utterly wanted. In every sense of the word. Needs to know he’s craved, desired, welcomed… _essential_. Not just for their bedsport, but for… everything. For Aziraphale to feel this life is worth all the pain. For him to see the joy in apple tarts and sunsets and love stories and glasses of wine. For him to feel alive. 

Dainty hands slide things away. Push and tug as they roll their weight this way and that. They could will away all the clothing, but it feels… more intimate like this. More immediate. And the fingers that slick into him (okay some miracles are worth the effort) scissor and play him like he’s that harp that sings. 

In such a small, confined space… the gestures, the kisses, the mumbled ‘of course’s against his ear… He relaxes to the intrusion. Welcomes the slide inside. Blinks full of warmth and adoration at the eyes that are no longer hidden behind him. 

Hands curl over his own, as they slot into place. Lazy, unhurried rocking, as Crowley takes what he, himself needs. It feels good. It feels better than good. And Aziraphale is moved to tears as the lovemaking stays tectonic-slow. He bubbles out soft praise and gratitude, wondering what he did to deserve such a generous and doting lover. It’s preening at more than just his wings, and he knows - oh he knows - he knows more than any book could ever put into words. 

“I will always choose you,” he murmurs. “You. Only you.”

He’s floating, drifting, lulled and loved and loving in return. He reaches out with his tired wings, caressing thighs and ass and sides. It feels so good. It feels even better to know he needs this, just as much. It takes any lingering sense of guilt away.

This is right. This is perfect. This is them.


End file.
